Reciprocity
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Crack fic featuring Mycroft/half of Harrow and slight Mycroft/female  possibly Anthea , explicit and zany with tiny bit of Sherlock angst at the end.  Don't own: yada.


**Title:** Reciprocity (From the very private memoirs of Mycroft R. Holmes)  
**Pairing:** Mycroft/half of Harrow, Mycroft/F (possibly Anthea)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** M/M Slash, M/F Sex  
**Summary:** From Chapter Three of Mycroft's personal memoirs regarding his days at Harrow  
**Author's Note:** A humorous, cracky little piece, with a tiny piece of Sherlock angst at the end  
**Thank yous: **Much, much thanks for a Brit-pick by and in depth explanations regarding the application process at Oxford from and at of which I managed to use about three lines. Thank you for the gift of your time.  
Inspired by another delightfully naughty drawing by queenstardust.  
Set loosely in the same universe as my stories Little Monster and The Importance of Thinking Things Through but much more absurd (except for the end, as I said).  
Oh, and no offence to Stanford University, which is a lovely school and considered the Harvard of the West. :-)

***

From the very private memoirs of Mycroft R. Holmes, OBE, ,Ministry X, MI%, MI6 , CIA, FBI, Mossad, a really secret organization of which you've never heard at Her Majesty's Pleasure

Chapter 3—Sexual Awakening

I suppose that I was something of a late bloomer, well, for the era. The first time that I had sex of any sort was when I was seventeen. I had gone up to Oxford to for my interview in history to read politics, philosophy and economics and after it was over I was free to wonder the college before my train home. I had barely entered the gates of Magdalen College when I was approached by a tall, sturdily built young man with reddish hair and a ruddy, freckled complexion. "Hullo," he exclaimed, "new?"

I acknowledged that I had come up for my interview, and we introduced ourselves. His name was Nigel and he was second year. He offered to show me the college proper, a personal tour. How could I refuse? As you are certainly aware as a future reader of these memoirs, when the Official Secrets restriction has passed away and my memoirs, both those concerned with matters of diplomacy and security and these, concerned with my life, are aired, I am a master of deduction. So I cannot say that I misunderstood his friendliness (nor his upbringing and musical tastes) from the outset. And when his arm moved from around my shoulder as he was guiding me through an archway, to the small of my back and then finally to my hip, I made no complaint, and so, in a narrow doorway he kissed me forcefully, with an urgency and desire that amazed me. I had spent my early adolescence chubby and feeling, as is the want of teenagers everywhere, unlovely in the extreme. A sudden growth spurt had matched my weight to my height and had made me feel in command of my body once again, as I had felt in childhood when I was long-legged and slim. Sadly, such matching of height and weight was to escape me again in my twenties and I spent much of my thirties attempting to rein myself back in. But for a brief time between my Upper 6th and my graduation from Oxford with a first, I was perhaps attractive to a certain sort. I was tall, with dark auburn hair verging on black. My features were regular and I am told that I can wear a pleasant smile when the mood takes me.

And so, this passion from Nigel stroked my ego in a new and exciting way and soon he was stroking something else altogether and I was eagerly stroking back. We found ourselves (and I do not fool myself into doubting that the location was more familiar to Nigel than I might have hoped) in a small loo up some narrow stairs in some hall or other. And even now, so many years later, I can still remember the winter afternoon sunlight on the rough walls, and the slightly industrial cleaning smell along with a musty scent of old and multi-layered paint. We stumbled into a cubicle; its narrow confines barely containing the two of us and his hand was down my trousers creating sensations that were familiar but far more thrilling than any I had attained alone. I was much too sensitive and inexperienced to last long, and my frantic moans into Nigel's mouth must have told him as much. He tasted of lip balm and coffee and though I have tasted that same combination on many a lovers' lips since then, it cannot help but take me back each time as if the taste of Madelines.

He undid my trousers with practiced ease, and oh, when his lips wrapped around me, unknown future reader, I could not help but thrust forward with frenetic energy that made him chuckle along my length, creating a vibration that had me undone in a few short pulls of his mouth. The desire to scream was so great that I had to bite my own hand to keep from alerting the whole college of my ecstasy. Indeed, on later examination, I had broken skin and had to deliberately scratch my hand in some rose bushes to hide the evidence from my parents. As I came down from my heights, he caught me in his arms or I might have sunk to the floor, head lolling, arms still shuddering. I shall forever be grateful to whatever powers may be that my first experience was with a genuinely kind and gentle man who, while not above taking Sixth Formers to loos, made sure that they experienced pleasure and were not scarred or frightened in any way. I know that it is not always so and that poor first times can lead to lifelong sorrows in the bedroom, and even perhaps outside of it.

But of course, he was not so generous as to give such a gift without expectation of return. And I was all too eager to give it, much, much too eager. I frantically fumbled at his trousers and would have torn them from his hips had he not caught my hands, laughing again and kissing me slowly and leisurely until his own breath was ragged. He shed his trousers with a skill born of long practice and I practically collapsed in my fervent need to worship at his knees. I had no idea what I was doing but he was a quite patient teacher for all the perilousness of our situation. He was even kind enough to offer me a condom when he sensed that my hesitation at fully offering my gratitude was from fear. This was the late 80's after all, and I did not want to regret my first pleasure for the rest of a short life. Now that I have been in his position on several occasions, I can appreciate that it behooves one to guide a pupil so that one attains greater gratification at their hands and suffers no accidental injury. Whatever else one might say of me, I am a quick learner and soon had him clutching my head and moaning despite the dulling sensation of the latex between us. It was most thrilling to undo this older and I knew much more experienced man with simply my own just burgeoning skill.

Alas, as I checked my watch while we both readjusting our clothing, I realized it was nearly time for my train. I would have allowed him to take me fully then and there if that had been his wish and would not have wasted the next ten months waiting for the right opportunity to present itself if we had had the time.

We exchanged numbers and he expressed the desire that I contact him as soon as I came up. And to tell the truth, I was perhaps more gratified by this invitation than the offering of a place that I received some weeks later, as I had had no doubt about the place, but a great deal of doubt about my own attractiveness. I did contact him the following autumn, and we have maintained a lovely friendship ever since, with the occasional dalliance, of which his wife is completely aware and to which she is eminently amenable. But I am jumping forward.

I was not idle during those ten months, dear reader. While I did not give away that final virginity, I gave and took all others. My hesitation at that final doorstep, if you will allow the metaphor, was simply a desire to find another teacher/lover who would, with a greater experience, create an idyllic and memorable first time, something that I knew I would not get with boys of my own age. Note, I was not looking for love—merely experience and respect for the act.

As I mentioned, I found myself not unattractive that year, and upon returning to school, I set about testing my new found skills. It was very easy work to seduce (although, that is perhaps too graceful a word for what actually occurred) nearly anyone I wanted. It soon became known that Mycroft Holmes would go down on his knees in the boiler room of the gym or the equipment shed for practically anyone. Do not doubt for an instant that this was on anything but my own terms. I may have been on my knees, but I believe that that can be the most controlling position of all if you have what the other person wants. Indeed, I have found that a useful point of view in diplomatic relations and certainly in espionage (not literally on my knees—I had people for that—but in what appears to be the subservient position). On occasion I left boys aching with their penises hanging out of their zippers when I felt that they believed they were doing ME a favor.

For one, I genuinely enjoyed sucking cock. Forgive me for being vulgar, but really there are no other words that will do. I loved comparing them, learning what I enjoyed, what they enjoyed. Widths, weights, lengths, curves. The smells both when flaccid and when erect or between cut and uncut. I insisted on a condom, even from boys who assured me that they were virgins, and it became a sort of game to see how quickly I could make them come even with the barrier. There were many boys who took it as a personal challenge to see how long they could last under my tongue. They quickly learned that I am VERY competitive.

Of course, there were those of whom I was quite fond and I made it last as long as possible for them—although at 17, there is a limit. After the initial grand opening sale, as it were, I became more exclusive, rather like a club that has a membership run and then makes joining more restricted. I did not demand payment (certainly not in money—that would be crude) in reciprocity, but many were more than willing to return in kind, and I like to think that I turned out quite a school of talented mouths and hands for the enjoyment of future lovers. If they were not willing or able, I derived great enjoyment in stroking myself off in time to their breathing. If they held their breaths I would take a long slow stroke. And I would make short, sharp strokes in tandem with their panting.

My first experience of fingering, both giving and receiving, was with a delightful tart named Simon Harris. I do not insult him by calling him such, as it was a title with which he dubbed himself. Simon and I first became aware of one another as rivals, although Simon was willing to go much further than I. Simon, who has since become a movie producer, would certainly have ample material for blackmail on many present and past world leaders if he chose to use it. Since Simon had been under much of Harrow, and I had been on my knees in front of them, it was assumed that like silly teenage girls in a dreadful Hollywood movie, we would be rivals, as if there was a limited supply of what we wanted. As I said, neither of us was looking for love and at a boys' school, there was plenty of what we did want available. Contrary to everyone's expectations, we became fast friends and happily turned to each other's company when we had an idle moment.

He and I were lying on a blanket in the boiler room on an afternoon, in perhaps our second or third time together. I had my face happily buried between his legs when I heard him cry out, "Oh, God, Mycroft, put your fingers in my arse, please. Finger me now. I'm not going to come without it." I was so startled that I stopped what I was doing to his great annoyance. He quickly educated me and his reaction at two and then three of my probing fingers convinced me that this was something I needed to master. He then vigorously returned the favor and there was one more virginity discarded. Unfortunately Simon was resolutely a bottom and so while I was perhaps experiencing as much stretching as full penetration, I still had to defer that final pleasure. Simon also allowed me to take him, and it was indeed divine to take someone who enjoyed it so thoroughly and so vocally. I knew then that I could never be a pure bottom as the sensation of tight muscles around my penis was far too magnificent to not experience again and again.

Two of my personal favorites who needed no tips from me, either through natural talent or (I suspect) some other teacher and much practice, perhaps together, were a set of twins, Robert and Richard Merton, Bobby and Dickie. They were pale white-blond from some Scandinavian genes and I always blocked out a substantial amount of time for them. We would begin with my working them over with my mouth and hands, moving my head between their cocks while I stroked the other. I had such skill by this point (although it might have also had to do with their being twins) that I could bring them to orgasm within seconds of each other.

Next they would turn their attentions to me. Together. They would both work my rigid penis as though it was an ice cream cone, alternating licks, sucks on the head and strokes until I could barely discern one mouth from the other, although Dickie had slightly calloused lips from the clarinet. The two blonde heads would be bobbing over me in alternate rhythms. Then there would be lubed fingers reaching for me, probing me. The first time it happened I was so startled I almost stopped the proceedings. Mercifully I did not, or I would have missed out on one of the most remarkable sensations I have ever experienced. Bobby would always work a finger in first. I could tell by the sensation of his fully calloused piano hands in contrast to Dickie's clarinet padded ones. Dickie would add his and slowly each would add a second finger. THEN they would both curl them in opposite directions, like a flower opening inside me, and I would be undone. I know that on more than one occasion I ejaculated "Fuck" as I ejaculated. I was not normally given to worded outbursts, usually managing only guttural, animalistic noises. Orgasm rendered my agile mind nearly non-verbal which is perhaps part of my continued delicious enjoyment of the act. I have been with several sets of twins since then, but I have never found a pair that worked with such synchronicity.

I always longed to have a full night with the boys, particularly after I had lost all virginities, as the thought of being between them around them and in them in all permutations fueled much of my own solitary midnight masturbation. I had hoped that we might meet up later, but sadly they ended up attending schools in the United States on opposite coasts (Harvard and Stanford—Bobby was sadly never quite as good a student) and we were never again all three within several thousand miles of the others.

At half term I found myself home and at loose ends. As I had been getting regular release three or even four times a day at school, I quickly realized I was going to need some sort of outlet. Fortunately there were several boys who lived relatively locally whom I either knew from school, or who I knew from visiting teams. As Mummy and Daddy were at work, I had the house virtually to myself and they would come over for some lovely fun on the settee in the sitting room. I was very into what the Americans call "jocks" at that point especially having the luxury of time and privacy to do what we liked and I found rolling around with their muscled hands, legs and shoulders quite thrilling.

As I write this, I find myself thinking of my brother. One would think that such musings would preclude any thought of him at all, and indeed, I believed that this chapter along with the first might be completely free of him completely. But my afternoon playtime led to a strange interaction with him that I fear I must relate in order to make sense of some of my actions with regards to him that will appear in later chapters.

I was receiving oral sex from a lovely young man, a rugby player, whose name had unfortunately escaped me, something which almost never happens to me even in extreme duress or pleasure. I knew that his initials were PL from his discarded school bag which I could see from where I lay, but I could not for the life of me remember if his name was Patrick or Phillip and I didn't want to accidently utter the wrong name at a key point in the proceedings. I was almost ready to peer into his collar to see if his mother had helpfully penned it in. Perhaps if I had not been so engaged in trying to work through my memory, I might have heard my brother picking the lock of the room where Patrick/Phillip and I were reclining. But instead, the first that I was aware of my brother was when he was leaning on the back of the sofa looking down at us and obliviously introducing himself to poor Patrick/Phillip as well as telling Phillip/Patrick about another partner which is simply not in good taste, even if both parties are aware that it isn't an exclusive thing.

I ordered him out and he went with as good a grace as my brother ever does anything he doesn't want to do, which actually surprised me. I tried to reengage poor Phillip/Patrick but his nerves were quite shattered and I had to send him home.

I took a shower and indulged in a somewhat frustrating solitary release and upon dressing, went into Sherlock's room where he was working (for once) on a paper that was due after the hols.

So, you're gay, he said without looking up, and I said that I hadn't really thought about it in those terms. I find labels so distancing, that in naming the thing, particularly a mutable and subjective thing like sexuality, we make it even less possible to understand it. It goes against much of what I have spent my career doing, of course, but it well may be that my knowledge of this vagary of language and meaning has helped me do a job where an enemy may become an uncomfortable but necessary bedfellow at a moment's notice. I pointed out that since I was at an all boys school, I hadn't really had the chance to explore other options in order to make an informed decision, or to determine whether one was actually necessary.

I have wondered if the first person to approach me that day at Oxford had been a woman, would anything have changed. Would I have engaged in a boorish double standard—that any girl who would do that couldn't be all that nice—while judging Nigel to be very nice indeed? Would fears of pregnancy and possible emotional attachment on either side have stopped us? I suppose if I must choose a term, I would consider myself bisexual, but even that I find limiting. I enjoy sleeping with women very much and find the sensations different. It is rather like saying one eats both steak and chicken. They are nothing alike, except that they fill a need. And eating one of the other more often does not prevent one from enjoying the other, or enjoying fish if it comes to that (whatever fish may be in this metaphor).

I enjoy, for instance, the taste and smell of oral sex with a woman more, especially how it lingers with one even after a shower and can serve to replay the event in one's mind. I am very fond of breasts, pleasantly but not overly round and firm. I had an assistant with a quite lovely set and we entertained ourselves often. She had the remarkable ability to stop in the middle of texting correspondence or checking on political turmoil in order to come quite passionately and even violently and then resume exactly where she had left off. A long slim leg in a high heel is quite aesthetically pleasing as well. The fact that if one is doing it right, a woman will be naturally slick and open whereas a man will always need artificial lubrication is quite nice, but a woman's vagina will never be as breathtakingly tight as an anal sphincter. And I enjoy being taken which, while there are certain options, will never be the same with a woman.

I discussed some of this with my little brother, though not in detail (he was only ten years old at this time) and encouraged him to keep an open mind. I continued to be worried about his anti-social tendencies which exacerbated his loneliness.

I finally asked if he intended to do anything about what he had seen.

"Mum and Dad are quite progressive. I'm sure they won't be upset," he said.

I pointed out that being accepting and happy about your child's sexual preferences does not actually mean that you will be happy about them promiscuously having it off on the sofa every day of break with a different member of either the rugby team or the football team. In short, was Sherlock going to accidently or on purpose start talking at dinner about the boy, PL, whose father was cheating and who's mother was not handling it well, who had been semi-naked on the settee this afternoon.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. We both knew that I had enough on him to make sure that neither of us did anything fun for the rest of holidays and possibly beyond, but I didn't relish having that conversation with my parents until I was well out of the house. So I offered a trade, an agreement between two gentlemen, whereby I would "forget" one major transgression of his in order that he "forget" this one and give me room to conduct my business in peace for the rest of the week.

He looked at me for a long moment and finally said, "If I give you this, you have to promise to grant me one favor without questions or conditions when I ask for it at some point in the future."

I was surprised as it wasn't like Sherlock to think in terms of the future. He barely remembered that he might want to know where his school bag was the next morning. But he insisted, even to the point of saying that we had to write it down, make two copies and we would each sign them. I laughed, thinking it some childish whim, but he didn't smile and pulled two pieces of composition paper out of his binder and dictated his terms.

So I carefully wrote that I, Mycroft Holmes would grant to my brother, Sherlock Holmes one favor at any point in the future from this date without question or condition, no matter what it was and no matter what objections I might have, even if the favor was that I take no action whatsoever.

I looked at what I had written, and to this day I don't know why I asked what I asked next, because my brother was ten years old. Why did it even occur to me?

"Sherlock, you cannot ask me to let you hurt yourself or…kill yourself…and expect that I will stand back and do nothing because of this piece of paper."

The silver eyes simply gazed back at me and then finally pulled away. "Fine," he allowed, "add that clause in if you must, but add too that if you refuse the favor for some reason, then I continue to hold the note." He didn't say what I wanted him to say, which was, I wouldn't ask that, Mycroft. So I wrote it, copied it out and we both signed each copy. I knew he wanted to put it into his safe place (third floorboard from south wall, creaked when walked on, and felt slightly uneven underfoot) but wouldn't while I was there. So I left with my copy and an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. I wasn't to think of the document again for over ten years.

So that brings us to the end of my school days. Onward to my collegiate career in the next chapter. 


End file.
